


A Rift Never Destined for Mend

by dr_zook



Category: The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Trojan War, bring your daughter to the slaughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_zook/pseuds/dr_zook
Summary: This is what you get when you think you decide against the Fates. When you think, this time I choose for myself. I'm a daughter of Sparta, I learned to fight my battles early.Then they burn it down and maim it. Scatter the ashes and pull you back on their ships. Push you at their throne's feet.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewalrus_said](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewalrus_said/gifts).



> Dear recipient, hopefully you're not disappointed by this! My mind went running wild a bit with the characters. They weren't easy to rein.

_ [Hector, prince of Troy] _

The sparrows pick at my astral body, wanting to drag me down, down, down.

But I can't tear myself from your gruesome torment. The coarse hemp cords almost tear through my heels. Not only do they keep my body tied to your chariot, but also my soul to my flesh.

Maybe you assume I'm already dead.

Maybe you hope I'm still alive.

Maybe you don't care at all. You just keep counting how often we pass the main gate of my hometown.

I hear them wailing and weeping, cursing you and the winds that brought you here to our coast.

You're tired, your horse is tired. I'm tired as well. I would beg you to just untie me and let me lay in peace finally, but my eyes and nose and throat are clogged with dust and blood.

Finally your horse decides to come to a halt, shies thrice before you urge him on. Onwards to your tents, and I can hear the roar of those standing on the battlements. But they don't dare provoke you--for nothing more than my desecrated corpse, bereft of armor and strength, life and perseverance.

Leaving the battleground, you hang your head. You look nothing like a victor.

 

***

 

_ [Andromache, princess of Cilician Thebe, princess of Troy]  
_

My little one, my dear one: if only I knew.

I would have made you wings, defying time and space. I would have summoned dead Daedalus for advice, holding his hand whilst he grieved for his son, listening to his instructions. I would have taken then feathers from the very arms of your aunt's father, plucked them from him in the throes of his passion.

Then I would have sought out the mightiest pine to cut its bark, gathering the resin to mingle with the wax of the bees whose gentle buzz delighted you so much. They live in the woods south from us, the sweetness of their honey rivals your father's lips.

It would have worked in the end.

So when they threw you from the highest tower in the walls of Troy, I would have cheered. For you would have soared high on the wings I made you, instead of letting your gentle bones be trampled in the sand below.

But I screamed until my eyes bled. Until my maids' fingernails ripped my skin, because I wanted to follow you, and they held me back. Until my voice was nothing but a broken rasp and all tears and blood and life had left me.

 

***

 

He approaches her; his youthful mouth a tired snarl. His hair auburn, the reddish beard streaked with blood. There is blood across his jaw, across his arms and thighs. Blood is everywhere; it's dripping from his weapon. His leather shield is dangling from his back.

The city around them is in uproar.

His hand reaches for her face, for her head. For the jewels braided into her hair.

She sidesteps his grip, but doesn't flee. The handmaidens huddle somewhere behind; some have silently started to cry, others are pacing and failing to calm their nerves.

Her chin is level with his collarbone. She makes it rise higher and says, "You have taken my husband, killed my son. You're about to take my maids, and divide them between your men. You ripped away my family, my people. The only one I had left."

His eyebrows rise, his lips calm down. He mimics a slight bow. "You are right, princess. For a princess you are, at least, if not a queen. Those gems in your hair cannot diminish your strength, and the gentle curls of your braids don't fool me." He then grabs some of her braids, and twirls them in his soiled fingers. They come away sodden; her heart beats faster.

"Pyrrhos," she addresses him, "I know who you are. Your father's unquenchable ire drips from your eyes, despite the sweet words you wield. But you have won. The Gods have settled their quarrels, and favoured your cause. For them it's over, it seems. But my loss has just begun."

Glass smashes somewhere, a few rooms down. One of her girls starts sobbing louder. The soldier sighs.

"Why are you here?" Her voice has grown smaller and she pulls the dull silk cowl over her head.

"I remembered you," he says, and decides to take a seat. "Your pain and anger when we killed your son moved me. I don't have sons myself, don't have daughters. Yet, family holds me to… this."

Fingers trembling, eyes downcast, her eldest handmaid serves him watered wine. Andromache is not sure whether she should scold or praise the old hag.

He thanks them, while the widow stares at him.

"Master," she says. "I hold no sympathy for you. I don't want you in my rooms. I don't want you to drink my wine."

He takes a sip from the cup holding her gaze. "Princess, you lost this war. Almost all of your men are slain, your majestic walls are about to be burned to ashes. Your sister will return to her lawful husband, in fact she already begged for forgiveness on her knees in front of him." He searches for something in her eyes, then spits out. "She should be on her knees in front of Troy's gate and beg _them_ for mercy."

Andromache is unwilling to agree with him, because he doesn't know.

He doesn't know Helen, and clearly he doesn't know the brothers from Mycenae well. Who knows what Clytemnestra is up to these hours? One doesn’t know whether to hope for her to have fled Agamemnon's house or stay and rule his lands. He, who was about to sacrifice their eldest daughter in order to secure good winds. Why would a father do something like this? How could his brother's pride be more important than the life of his child?

What kind of king, what kind of man would act like that?

"I don't hold any grudge against her," she says. It's true, and maybe she is a bit surprised by this.

 

***

 

_ [Helen, princess of Sparta, princess of Troy, queen of Mycenae] _

This is what you get when you think you decide against the Fates. When you think, _this time I choose for myself. I'm a daughter of Sparta, I learned to fight my battles early._

Then they burn it down and maim it. Scatter the ashes and pull you back on their ships. Push you at their throne's feet.

"Why," I ask you. Because I cannot fathom why you honor me the way you do. "Is it because of our daughter?" She's a full-grown woman by now, the suitors lining up outside the palace they say.

You shake your head. The crown weighs heavily, darkness ringing your crinkled eyes. "I refuse to let all the deaths be in vain," you say. Your wide hands grip the wood of your seat tighter.

You say: "You chose me once. I'm not giving you up now."

And: "Who else would give you shelter? You left your righteous husband, and survived the next two."

The last one I didn't choose. Deiphobos was anything but kind--he was gentle Paris' brother, that's all.

You ask: "Aren't you ashamed?"

To which I say, "No."

**Author's Note:**

> The sparrows are, of course, [psychopomps](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Psychopomp). (Just in case you were wondering what they were doing there.)
> 
> Andromache calls Achilles' son _Pyrrhos_ ('red'), which was his first name given by the family of his mother, instead of _Neoptolemos_. This first name refers to the name his father took, Pyrrha, when disguised as a maiden to be hidden.
> 
> A thousand thanks go out to my stellar beta L., without her this would be a great, unreadable mess. 
> 
> The title is a line borrowed from the band Minsk.


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